Berlin to Prague

Dancing Man at Sunset

Berlin - Prague - Day 4

I woke up feeling crook in my gulliver knowing I should have grabbed a taco or fried chicken after the last bar. Regretting my life choices, I arrived 45 minutes early at Berlin’s Central Station, hunting for food. Ashamed to say I opted for a Burger King double cheeseburger—rather than a flimsy pastry unworthy of a hangover or a phallic Bratwurst that sent double entendres flying through my brain like Der Spiegel headlines.

Once on the platform, I was unsure where to stand for first class, so I asked a couple of earthy looking transport workers who explained that the two first class carriages were marked on the platform floor. Then they sneered at me flashing crooked yellow teeth beneath thick Stalinesque mustaches before one of them said: 

“First class? You? 250 euros for a ticket? ” And ambled off pulling up his pants and laughing.

I checked my shirt and face for ketchup and mustard and concluded that I didn’t look at all like a bum. Wankers! I have a first class Eurail pass! 

After some seat surfing, I found the perfect spot and settled in to do absolutely nothing but gaze out of my picture window and listen to music. A speeding landscape of deep greens, browns and never ending tangled trees transitioned from the hard edges of urban sprawl to softer, pastoral scenes of farmhouses and open rolling meadows—perfect for my Dvořák soundtrack. German gave way to Slavic on the signs, and the conductors transformed from giant baritone-voiced Deutschlanders into smaller, chirpy Eastern Europeans—a shift as pleasant as the view.

I arrived in Prague under a sharp, late afternoon sun and dragged my wheelie bag across endless cobblestones dodging hordes of goggle-eyed tourists. Google Maps, in its infinite wisdom, directed me straight through a building to reach my address. I stopped outside to consider this nonsense. The structure brought to mind one of Orwell’s ministries in 1984—grey, daunting and inconspicuous. No courtyard, no passage—just solid concrete. I began to detour but remembered that much of the city’s architecture predates the war, full of quirks and hidden passages. Doubling back, I stepped inside. 

The arched doorway opened into a dim walnut corridor with chequered floor tiles, leading to a narrow flight of stairs. Shafts of golden sunlight leaked around a sharp bend that tapered into a long hallway, the ceiling pressing lower with each step, before finally spilling out into the fresh air and natural light of the exit. I felt like I’d just navigated a WWII escape tunnel. A battered mailbox to my right matched the address for my Airbnb on Navratilova Street. I had arrived.

My digs

Jitka, my Airbnb host, a blonde single mum wearing stone wash ripped jeans circa 1988, arrived and led me, via an elevator the size of a dumb waiter, to her spacious apartment. My room was bright, airy and tastefully furnished with a nice bureau and rug. A bijou balcony overlooked nearby streets and a local church. There was a door directly to the shared bathroom that didn’t lock. I discovered that none of the bathrooms or toilets had working locks which left me a little perturbed, but when in Rome. 

My evening wander led me past cafés and restaurants flaunting glistening kilos of roast meat. As the sun dipped, I reached the Vltava River, where the city was bathed in gold. To my left stood Dancing House, the Gehry-Milunić tribute to Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers—a striking blend of concrete, glass, and steel, its fluid curves swaying in contrast to the rigid baroque and gothic facades nearby. A dancing couple? Maybe not quite Fred and Ginger, but there’s a definite hip swing. 

I crossed the Jirasek bridge, capturing gushing riverbanks and shimmering twilight until the grandeur of old Prague hit me. I stopped, overwhelmed by the city’s beauty—the distant church steeples, the ancient coffee houses, the bistros glowing at magic hour and the river’s rippling surface, glittering in the soft light.

In search of pre-dinner cocktail, I stepped into a quiet modern lounge and ordered an old-fashioned. The effusive barman grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels, I baulked but he insisted, swearing he made the best in Prague, then shook the mix for ten minutes before handing me a sweet, watery concoction that made me gag. His earnest effort was painful to watch, so rather than asking for another drink, I finished it and went in search of proper Czech food.

As a solo traveler, finding a spot with the correct ambiance and good food can feel like a high-stakes gamble. At home, a bad meal leaves me utterly distraught—even after my wife has consoled me. I hadn’t done my Prague homework so my evening became a game of window-lurching and menu-scanning. 

Every place seemed to fall into one of two extremes: painfully trendy or underwhelming traditional. I didn’t fancy hipster Korean fried chicken with a side of kimchi, or the medieval offerings of pork knuckle and beef goulash. Somewhere in between had to exist.

I was lured into a Czech restaurant, only to find that none of the waiters spoke English. Ushered into a dim, wood-paneled dining room, I realized I wasn’t feeling the austere menu, heavy atmosphere, or the idea of fumbling through an awkward order. I needed something quick and authentic.

As I hesitated by my seat, the waiter hovered, menu in hand, his inane smile locked in place.  

“Ahhh!”

I blurted, staring at my phone like it was a matter of life and death, ignoring the fact that it hadn’t made a single noise. I held up a hand, pointed at the screen, and mumbled, “Gotta see a man about a dog!” before bolting into the crisp night air.

The great thing about visiting far off places is that you can make a complete ass of yourself and not give two monkeys about it because you're never going back! 

After more menu squinting in the dark I settled on a bar showing Spanish football and ordered a dish of beef shin with mushrooms and bacon dumplings. Sounds terrible in retrospect but I was hangry! It arrived three minutes after I placed my order and was fresh as a March Christmas pudding and bland as an old steamed sock.

Aggrieved after my catastrophe cocktail and tasteless grey dinner, I slipped along the street which was peppered with late night watering holes in search of a nightcap and landed at a sleek cocktail bar. There I bumped into Austin, a garrulous chef from South London. He’d cooked lobster, shrimp and langoustines on boats off southern Spain before moving to the states where he opened a restaurant in Chicago. 

While finally unwinding with Austin over a smoke in the cool night air, a towering man with wild, gypsy locks appeared, clutching a pint to his chest. He lingered for a moment before stepping between us, staring into space as silent tears rolled down his cheeks. Austin glanced at him.

“You alright, mate?”

He shook his head. A heavy pause followed before he finally spoke.

“My baby, one year old, die yesterday.”

Austin looked at me, then back at the man. 

“What mate? Your baby died?”

He nodded, swigged his beer and continued staring into space. I was lost for words but eventually asked if he wanted to join us, saying he shouldn’t be alone. He ignored me and looked at Austin.

 “You are first person who ask if I’m OK.” He said, slapping Austin on the back. Then he walked off crying into his pint. 

“I need a drink after that!” Austin said, disappearing. 

I headed back to my table but found a large group of men in my spot. Shrugging, I moved my jacket to the next table. The nearest man yelled something in Czech. I smiled and nodded, indicating it was fine for me to move.

He shouted again. This time, I caught a thick northern accent:

“You’re alright, fella. You can sit by us, no problem, lad.”

This was Joe from Bradford. He’d organized a trip for his 30th birthday and was kicking off the first night with ten of his mates. He co-ran a generational trucking company with his dad, and his party had been bar-hopping since arriving four hours ago.

I shook hands with a mix of stout, friendly northerners, who were half-distracted by reviews of the next bar. Joe handed me a beer and invited me along after learning I was on my own. I politely declined. Had I joined, the night would’ve been a blur of good-natured ribbing, tall tales, and nonsensical nicknames. Instead, I finished my pint, nodded my goodbyes, and headed home, reflecting on my rollercoaster of a night.

Back at the Airbnb, I’d forgotten which floor and door were mine and tried several, bumbling about like a complete fool before my key worked. I collapsed onto what I assumed was a chaise lounge—only to discover it was just a very small sofa.